The Long Hall
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Frank as interlocutor.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks to Owl and Cheri for the diligent beta-work.

**Author's Note: **A follow-up to the story "Chairs" and to my very first story, "Delirious".

**The Long Hall**

by L.M. Lewis

Frank had papers to be signed—one set each for Milt and Mark—and a fair degree of certainty, since it was still visiting hours, that he could kill two birds with one stone. The ward clerk must've remembered him from previous visits. She merely flagged him through without asking his destination.

The lieutenant knew his way around by now and took a left down the hallway, pausing only at the doorway to the room to listen for a moment. There were no sounds of conversation from within. Frank hated to admit it, but the last time he'd been in there, only three days earlier, things had been a little _taut_.

He sighed, and pushed the door open quietly. The explanation for the silence was readily apparent: one man was dozing and the other was standing next to the bed.

"What are you—"

Mark loosened his grip on the bed table and raised a finger to his lips. Frank obediently dropped his voice to a bare whisper.

"—_doing up_?

The younger man shifted his weight to his good leg and reached for the IV pole on wheels that stood near the head of his bed.

"Give ya one guess," he whispered back. "It's this damn thing." He gestured to the IV bag and then eased past Frank, ignoring the hand that was offered in support and limping doggedly toward the bathroom.

He made it in, coaxed the wheels over the slight rise of the jamb, and closed the door behind him with a barely audible _snick_. Frank turned away. The other party was sprawled in the chair, a magazine open on the floor next to him where it had been dropped. Milt's feet were up, crossed at the ankles and propped on the pulled-open bottom drawer of the nightstand.

It looked like a precarious arrangement but Hardcastle was making the most of it. His head had fallen back and he was snoring sonorously. Frank checked his watch. It was still twenty minutes to nine, the official throwing-out time for visitors. He wondered if Milt was still seeing himself as an exception to that rule. He certainly had that first night, when Mark had been taken from the recovery room to the SICU.

He didn't have much time to ponder that possibility before he was interrupted by the sound of the bathroom door opening again—a faint squeak. Mark emerged with a slight grimace and a cautious glance at Milt.

There'd been no change in the older man's breathing pattern. Mark turned left, pulling his wheeled companion with him and motioning to Frank with a quick jerk of his chin toward the hallway.

Harper said, "Are you—?"

This got him a quick and nearly-silent s_hh_.

He followed McCormick docilely. Once they were both in the hall, with the door closed behind them, Mark let out a sigh.

"Are you supposed to be walking around on that leg?" Frank finished in something between a whisper and his normal volume.

Mark glanced down at the leg in question and then executed a one-shoulder shrug. "Nobody said I couldn't."

Frank noticed he was leaning pretty heavily on the IV stand. "You want a hand?" he asked casually.

"Ask me in a couple minutes," Mark replied, setting a course that kept him close to the wall and its support railing, though it was on the side where his arm was swathed in a sling. A few steps more and he bumped up against that wall, letting out a muffled grunt.

He halted, his breathing slow and deep, as though he were using it to control the pain. Frank thought about making another offer, but a half-second later he was glad he hadn't.

"See," Mark said, all quiet intensity, "that's the difference. If he'd been standing where you are, I'd've had to bite my tongue." He glanced back over his shoulder at Frank, whose expression must have revealed his puzzlement.

"He understands," Frank pointed out after a moment. "He doesn't expect you to make some kind of miracle recovery."

The younger man smiled thinly and shook his head, then pushed himself off the wall, gently, and continued his careful progression down the corridor.

"I know he's not expecting me to be back to normal," he said tightly. "_Nothing's_ been normal since all of this." He made a gesture towards himself, writ small with the hand that protruded from the sling.

They'd made it, almost miraculously, to the visitors' lounge near the elevators. Mark looked around at the seating but then limped past the doorway, continuing on down the hall.

"You trying to prove something here?" Frank asked, staying cautiously within arm's reach.

"Maybe," Mark muttered. The steps were coming a little slower now. The limp was more pronounced. He finally halted, halfway to the end of that passage, at a point that had no apparent significance.

"I'm tired," he said quietly.

"Then we should go back. Here, lemme give you a hand—"

"Not _that_ kind of tired, Frank." He tilted his head back and stared for a moment at the acoustic-tiled ceiling, and then he said, "I think it's the damn eggshells."

Harper wondered briefly if the fever was back. The first couple of days had been pretty exciting, by Milt's account.

Then he suddenly arrived at understanding.

"Oh—_eggshells_." He glanced back down the hallway toward the room they'd come from.

"Yeah," Mark reiterated with a hint of exasperation. "It's hard enough getting around, but every time I grunt, or groan, there he _is_, looking like he's personally responsible. So I don't walk—or if I do, I try and keep my mouth shut.

"I'm tired of it," he muttered. "The stitches itch—_everything_ itches. I just want to . . ."

"Grouse about it?" Frank asked helpfully.

Mark gave him a sideward glance that suggested he'd been thinking of a stronger word. "Yeah," he finally said, "_grouse_ . . . but I can't."

"I think he knows who's really to blame."

"The part of him who was a judge knows," Mark admitted, "but there's this whole other part that's just not like him. All that weird sixth sense stuff. _I _believe in crap like that, not him."

His voice, low but increasingly intense, had drawn a disapproving glance from a passing nurse. He grimaced and leaned back against the wall.

"Mark, really, lemme help you," Frank offered, trying hard not to look as though he felt any personal responsibility.

McCormick shook his head stubbornly, pivoting slowly and heading back. But Frank's hopes that he might be ready to return to his bed were dashed when they reached the visitors' lounge again. It was empty, and Mark turned in there, making his way toward the window that overlooked the parking lot and the dark hills beyond.

He stood there, facing out, his forehead nearly touching the glass. "Maybe it'll be better when we get home."

"Maybe you need to talk to him about it."

Mark turned his head slowly and gave him a look of disbelief.

"Okay," Frank admitted, "it'd probably be awkward."

"No kidding." Mark let out a long breath, but he didn't turn his face back to the window. "You could do one thing for me, though."

There was only a momentary hesitation, and Frank tried to sound fairly willing when he said, "What?"

"Get him back to work on Falcon and Price. There must still be some loose ends. Let him focus on the guys who are actually responsible for all this."

Frank supposed he hadn't managed to look very open to this suggestion. He couldn't come right out and tell the younger man that their mutual friend, an esteemed former jurist, had already physically assaulted one of the suspects. Fortunately, Mark seemed to be constructing his own explanation for the reluctance.

"No loose ends left, huh?" he asked. "How come that never happens when it's me and him, out poking around? Friday night, all day Saturday, sitting in the truck for hours at a time . . . there is _no_ justice."

Frank had to smile at this plaintive recitation. "Maybe you just have to let the bad guys shoot you more often."

Mark grinned a little lopsidedly. "See, we can actually joke about it. I gotta warn you, though—don't let Hardcase catch you doing that."

The lieutenant's expression went suddenly more sober, in recollection. "Cut him some slack," he said firmly. "He thought you were dead, or dying." Frank frowned and added, "What I didn't know then was that he thought _he_ was responsible."

"He—"

"Wasn't?" Harper looked up sharply. "Not even indirectly? You know he's a big believer in personal responsibility."

Mark nodded, slowly and unwillingly.

"And from what you two said, I can see _why_ he felt responsible."

"He wasn't," Mark repeated staunchly.

"You'd both heard what that housekeeper of yours said, and it sounds like she had the inside line on what was going to happen. Am I right?"

Mark shook his head and turned, his back now against the glass, with the impression that he was leaning on it some.

"It was my decision to go."

"Okay, so _you_ can be responsible, but not him? How does that make any sense?"

"Because I believe in that stuff but he doesn't." Mark gave him a look of earnest conviction. "See?"

"You're—" Frank halted suddenly.

Mark's focus had snapped past him—to the right of his shoulder. His expression went rigid, then produced a small and unnatural smile.

"Well," a familiar voice, gravely with sleep, intruded on them, "I should've figured that one out."

Frank swung around to see Hardcastle in the doorway of the lounge, looking frowzy and scratching his head.

"Musta dozed off—wondered where the hell you'd gone off to." He shot Mark a curious glance.

"Didn't want to wake you," Frank offered. "This is a nice little place," he gestured with a quick sweep of his hand to a room that was heavily influenced by the utilitarian school of design, "close to the room and all."

Hardcastle looked disapproving, but any confirmatory comments were cut short by a recorded announcement on the overhead sound system. "_Visiting hours are ending in ten minutes. All guests are requested to exit via the main lobby by the central elevators._" He glanced up in the general direction of the speaker with an expression of further disapprobation.

Frank took that opportunity to shoot a quick glance at Mark. The younger man's expression was weary, though not all of it seemed to be the result of his recent exertions.

"What I really came here for was to get you two to sign these." Harper reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the papers, each set neatly folded and paper-clipped. He had a pen out but then frowned.

"You'll probably want to read 'em first."

Mark reached for the pen and waited impassively for the papers to be handed over. He didn't look to be much in the reading mood.

Milt didn't step forward right away. It wasn't until the younger man had finished fumbling with his—signing his copy against the window and handing it back—that the judge edged into the room a little and said, "You look kinda beat." This was obviously directed at Mark. "Oughta get back to bed."

Frank was surprised that there was no argument. Mark only stood silently for a moment, then nodded once and took charge of his IV pole again. Of course it was entirely possible that Milt was right, the kid looked bushed, but it did seem as though there was some avoidance going on—and Mark wasn't in the mood for a confrontation.

Milt flanked the younger man and Frank fell in behind. Visiting hours were officially over by the time they got him escorted back to his room. Mark had his own system for getting back in bed and everything arranged to his satisfaction. Milt seemed to have a system as well; it consisted of standing by, arms crossed, as though he'd like to offer a hand but knew it wouldn't be welcome.

"Turn the light off on your way out," Mark asked.

It was a perfectly polite way of excusing his visitors and Frank took the hint. So did Milt, after a fashion and with a frown and a muttered "Good-night."

He flipped the switch, too, and—almost immediately—out of the dim recesses of the room came a surprisingly mild, almost apologetic, "See you tomorrow."

For the second time in less than half an hour, Frank found himself out in the corridor with a disgruntled man. Just as before, the door was allowed to close before anything got said.

"I dunno, Frank, you'd think the guy would take it a little easy, wouldn't ya? But, _no_, he's up trying to see how much he can get away with."

"It was a walk. We didn't even make it to the end of the hallway."

"You know _I_ offered to help him test his sea legs a couple of hours ago. He turned me down flat. I thought he wasn't feeling up to it."

Frank smiled thinly and ushered his friend down the hallway to the bank of elevators. "How many more days with the IV?" he asked in a casual attempt to change the subject.

"One, if the fever stays down. And once that's out, he can go home the next day after that."

"Two days?" Frank said, pushing the down button and hearing the ding as the doors opened almost at once. "That's good, isn't it?"

"Hmm" was Milt's noncommittal answer as he stepped aboard and turned to the front. "I'd've _thought_ so," he added sullenly. "Maybe it's overdoing it. Maybe he needs a little more time."

Frank hesitated. The elevator door closed and they were descending. That might have been the explanation for the feeling in the pit of his stomach. But it was only a couple of floors and they were halted now, with the doors opening again.

_What are friends for?_ he thought distractedly as they stepped out into the nearly-deserted main lobby. "Come here," he said, plucking at Milt's sleeve and then leading him to an empty grouping of chairs, a considerably more comfortable setting than the one upstairs.

Hardcastle had given him a brief questioning look, but then followed him—after all, there was still the statement to be signed, and though the man appeared as reluctant as McCormick to relive what he'd said, he undoubtedly knew his duty.

Frank waited until they were both seated, making it just that much more difficult for a quick getaway. He sat back a bit but didn't reach into his jacket to retrieve the copy of Milt's document. Once Milt was settled, too—though it seemed as if 'settled' was a fairly optimistic term for it—he said, "Maybe what Mark needs isn't more time, just a little more space."

For an instant Milt's expression froze, and Frank thought he'd misjudged the whole thing badly. But he couldn't leave it just at that, with only half an explanation.

"I think maybe you need a little space, too. You know, before I left the office this evening, to come get these statements signed, I called the switchboard here just to make sure Mark hadn't been discharged today. Once I knew he was still here, I didn't even think about calling you at home.

"Well, of course not," Milt said a little stiffly. "I was here."

"He's out of the woods and on the mend." Frank ventured a cautious smile. "_You're_ the reason he got out of that damn woods."

"I'm the reason he was in there in the first place, too," Milt snapped back.

"No, that was Price. He was the triggerman. It also looks like he was in charge of dumping the body."

Frank paused again. He realized it had come out sounding harsh. He'd meant it to—the verbal equivalent of taking his friend by the shoulders and shaking some sense into him.

Hardcastle looked more withdrawn than shaken up. His expression had gone sullen.

"Look," Frank said, "it just seems to me that Mark may be going a little stir-crazy up there, that's all. The last time he had to spend this long in a room that size, there were bars on the windows. And top that all off with you sitting there, looking guilty, it's gotta be kinda tough on the guy."

Milt cocked his chin a bit to one side, just for a moment. "He said all that, huh?"

"No," Frank assured him, "but I am a trained detective, right?"

"Yeah," the older man grumbled. "A good one, too, dammit."

"No," Frank sighed and squinted a little at his friend, "not that night, I wasn't—so there's plenty of regrets to go around. Look, all I'm saying is you both could use some space, and maybe you should try to lighten up a little. He _is_ on the mend. You, on the other hand, look like a couple miles of bad road. Are you sleeping at _all_?"

Milt shrugged. "Some . . . just had a nap up there." He hitched his thumb toward the ceiling and the floors above.

"Cat naps in a hospital chair don't count," Frank admonished. "I mean at home, in a real bed."

Milt said nothing, presumably because lying wasn't his strong suit.

Frank heaved another sigh. "I oughta hook you up with the department shrink. This is textbook, ya know. When a guy gets taken down, his partner takes a hit, too. _Stress_. Why should the Lone Ranger be any different?"

"Frank, I'm not a guy in a comic book and neither is _he_." Milt grimaced. "He almost bought the farm. He only has three months left on his parole and right now he can't even stand to be in the same room with me."

"A _hospital_ room," Frank pointed out, "with him tethered to an IV and you looking like you personally put him there. It'll be different in a day or two."

Milt raised one eyebrow. "You think so?"

"I _know _so."

"How?"

"Trained detective, remember?" Frank grinned. "Now, look," he said sharply, "I want you to go home. I'll swing by tomorrow morning at, say—_eleven_. You can look your statement over and sign it. Then we'll grab some lunch and I can bring you by here."

"I dunno—"

"You can give him a wake-up call if you can't stand the notion of him sleeping past nine."

"It's not that," Milt huffed.

"And then I'll drop by after work, about five, and take you by my place for dinner. Wednesday night—Claudia's making lasagna. How's that sound?"

The older man sighed, looking beaten for once, and maybe not entirely disappointed to admit it.

"He's still eating Jell-O and soup," he said—one last ditch effort to bear at least a little bit of the responsibility.

Frank was having none of it. "We won't tell him about the lasagna," he advised in a conspiratorial tone. "And he should be out by Thursday, right? Claudia can send some home with you. It's always better the second day."

Milt seemed almost sold, though there was still was still a shadow of doubt in his expression.

"What about in three months?" he muttered morosely.

"It won't last that long," Frank replied and, at Hardcastle's worried upward glance, he added, "It's always gone by the second day—you know how good her lasagna is."

Hardcastle finally quirked a grin and then shook his head. "Good point--I guess three months is a lot of casseroles from now."

"Now yer cookin'," Frank said with a duck of his chin and a smile of his own. Then he glanced around at the now deserted lobby. "And I think we oughta hit the road. Visiting hours are over."


End file.
